


Still, I Shiver

by tweedisgood



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: First Time, Holmes POV, M/M, POV First Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn tag challenge, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 20:41:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tweedisgood/pseuds/tweedisgood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the brink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still, I Shiver

**Author's Note:**

> Written inside 24 hours to a prompt by [Persiflager](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflager/pseuds/Persiflager) "goosebumps"

All is clear, now. Burning clear; icy clear. The door to the world outside is fastened, bolted shut, the key twice turned and tucked away; the inner door, too, is quite secure, locked tight. We in this room - where I have slept alone every night, every month and year until this moment - we are not secure, may never be again. Yet this, this…I must have this, must have him. I burn to know him and to be known. I have been cold for so very long: cold to my bones, cold in my heart, keeping me safe, keeping me apart. Time to be warm. My friend John – he wants me to say “John”, to whisper it in the dark; to ask him for the marmalade at breakfast using it, he has longed for it for months, so he tells me – has longed also for this, and it is time. Time to be touched; tasted; enjoyed.

Still, I shiver.

Myriad points rise on my consciousness as on my skin – cold, yes, for it is winter here and the fire is dying as we unlock ourselves, piece of clothing by piece, and the first contact with the air raises gooseflesh. But it is the utter clarity of what we are about to do which pricks along every nerve, trembles up and out in my breaths and his. The smallest movement is raised to high drama, senses sharp and erect, proud above the commonplaces of existence.

I never had a dose of cocaine as potent as this.

This is deadly danger. For him, as he casts off normality, respectability, a lifetime’s love of women: as he risks the wrath of God and the law. For me, as I let someone in at last. Reason, judgement, the balance of a fine mental instrument: all shot to pieces as I knew they would be. As the shrapnel of my self-possession flies past I startle and flinch, but only for an instant. I press on, for my mission is to be possessed by him.

He begins gently, mindful of my inexperience, of my ignorance. Clothes are a damnable prison at a time like this, and a blessed shield. We want them off, but not too quickly, not too soon. We long to be naked and we fear it. Honesty, Sherlock Holmes: _I_ fear it and _I_ long for it. He must do the work – tugging at my collar, twisting the stud, cursing fluidly, sexual slang uppermost in his mind. The stud is a cunt, a buggering whore, it will not work free. His fingers are clumsy with haste and lust, with a decision that there is still time for me to go back on.

All at once the collar rips and the stud falls to the floor to roll I know not where; I care not where. He is triumphant, buoyed by success, making busy disrobing me. Next, the conquering hero vanquishes my cuffs and bootlaces. Woollen stockings and linen shirt alike surrender to him.

He is still almost fully-clothed, aside from that place where I pulled his shirt from his trousers whilst we were still in the sitting room, to pass an experimental hand up the springing, spreading bush of hair from navel to nipples . Is this usual, I ask him, and he casts me a glance, as if to say “were you expecting there to be anything ‘usual ‘here?” What he says, calm with the sure authority of raw desire, is:

“Undress me, then. And strip yourself bare. On the double.”

I gave him this command, yielded it the second I told him yes, I will lie with you; yes, you may do whatever you wish with me, _yes_. I am ordered; I obey.

Still, I shiver.

What will he want? What, when it comes to it, will I? I have read Burton and Hafiz – sodomy as exploration, penetration as poetry. It seems obvious, the only way two males can physically be joined. As we tumble onto the narrow bed, casting the last guardian rags of clothing to the floor, I imagine it; spread-eagled under him, pierced, shoved against the mattress over and over, stuffed full of him. He, solid and greased as a steam piston, smoothly working the sheath that is my body, making a gift of himself, a transfer of energy, driving me closer to paradise with every stroke.

“No. At least, not straight away,” he chides me when I throw my head back against the pillow and spread my knees. Even so, he spreads them further, bends to stroke and kiss the tender skin exposed at the inside of my thigh. He inhales the musk of a standing prick that has been ready for him since he stared me in the eye and then without a second’s pause at my groin – minutes ago, days ago when we were still gentlemen and not raving lunatics about to go conclusively, unalterably mad together.

I am in his mouth before I can ask for it.

These are places on my body that never existed until now, pleasures unaccounted for. Words tumble out of my mouth which I did not know could be put together– “Please, God, please, sweet Christ, John” , “suck harder, move your tongue against the head , like that, exactly like _that_ , again, _again_ ” Above all, every way to say “yes” that the mind of man could invent. Yes to all of it – to being licked along the length of my yard, his mouth watering so I could hear the sound of it, to my balls in the exquisite vice of his fingers, his knuckles brushing straining sinews as I buck and twist to keep myself swallowed, to keep on feeling that building, buzzing heat. I am close to spending, hard as bone and pulsing harder still, a dim recollection that I should warn him but no longer aware enough to do more than draw my hand through his hair. He understands and pulls off with his lips, rough palm doing the rest of the job and meanwhile he kisses me open-mouthed with sex-soiled lips and tongue, making me a gift of myself, salt and bitter spice.

It is filthy, and perverse, and it makes me come so very hard that I actually shout out loud. I had always thought that was sheer pornographic invention. To be sure, it is not poetry, nor even his name, however precious. There is no articulation possible at that moment, or not at least, it seems, for me. The summit of bliss is a male animal's bellow to heaven.

Bliss for John Watson, it turns out, is something to do with Persian rose oil and the fact that, collection of sticks that I am, I am far stronger than he. Boxing, riding and singlestick develop the body in ways a physician can happily speculate on, should he wish. I have thigh muscles you would not credit, and to his credit, he knew that I would have.

So he has me standing - when I can stand again. My eyes close, as much against the accusing stares of fellow-criminals from the rogues’ gallery which lines the far wall, as from concentration to hold him at the junction of thigh and groin, to grip and grasp him just so, to give him purchase and friction to come to his crisis, silky with sweat and groaning in a long exhale. I take him as far as he wants to go, for now. The intimacy of it, the hot, sweet feeling of him in my arms, passionate in heat and at rest after, his temple against my collarbone, nearly undoes me. I will not, I _will not_ descend to drivel and cliché and yet…

_My dear_

_My own_

_My heart_

_Beloved_

If I ever speak those words aloud, feel free to mock, John, to tell me I am a fool, or to suppose I am merely twitting you. I will not give myself away, not even to you. There is trust and there is foolhardiness.

You are the kindest of men. But I am still Sherlock Holmes and still, I shiver.


End file.
